As You Like It
by Belladonna Lee
Summary: DMHP Slash. One drunken night is enough to dye Harry's black-and-white world into an intoxicating palette of violet-tinted grey.
1. Track 1: Soiree

Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter and its characters are not mine. The title of this story is based on Shiina Ringo's song, _Okonomi de_, not Shakespeare's play.

A/N: A light-hearted, sappy piece for once, since my writing has been too depressing lately.

**As You Like It**

_Track 1: Soiree_

The party was winding down to a slow crawl. Most of the guests had already departed; the remaining few were dispersed around the hall, a veil of weariness hanging over them like smoke. A handful of people were dancing lethargically on the slightly tarnished dance floor, to the sweet voice of the songstress performing on the raised platform, with the subtle accompaniment of piano, string bass, and percussion.

Scattered on the floor were colourful confetti of every shade under the sun; floating to the ceiling were balloons about to make their grand and ultimately futile escape. Even the magnificent chandelier was beginning to lose its brilliance, as though it too was laden with fatigue. Forsaken on the long table to the side were leftover delicacies and half-empty wine glasses; the pristine white table cloth of before was now marred by stain. Vibrant and lively had been the banquet hall, now it resembled no more than a sad refuge, like a tired woman whose make-up was smudged and whose hair was falling out of the elegantly twisted knot after a long night.

A set of crystalline glass doors opened to the patio, where one could see the sickle moon taking a leisurely stroll across the velvet sky. A lone figure was standing before the delicately carved marble railings, his elbows rested upon the slab of white stone. A faint autumnal breeze whispered endearment into his ear, while flirting mischievously with the hem of his dinner jacket and the loosened black tie around his unbuttoned collar. Hazy green eyes behind a pair of black-framed glasses squinted at the starlit sky in search of the Orion's Belt; nonetheless, from the look of dismay upon the boyish face, one could discern that he was unable to locate the triplet of stars.

And that was how Draco Malfoy found Harry Potter lingering on the patio, staring at the sky as though it held some unfathomable mystery he did not have the privilege to glimpse upon.

Halted several steps away from Harry, Draco remarked, his tone inquisitive though not overly so, "You are still here."

Harry gave a start at the voice, for he had not expected to encounter anyone out here in the cold. Whirling around to regard the intruder, he stumbled slightly, but his quick reflex saved him from further embarrassment. Once he had recovered from his mishap, he was surprised to find himself beholding the meticulously dressed figure of his former rival. "Oh, it's you."

A pale eyebrow arched in bemusement at Harry's flushed cheeks and unfocused eyes. "Are you drunk? How much did you drink?"

"I lost count," Harry confessed, his mind too groggy to come up with any sarcastic comments or even a pretence at hostility -- not that there was any point to do so without an audience. "I wanted to clear my head a bit before I go home. Don't want to accidentally splinch myself."

"So you decide to freeze yourself to death instead," Draco replied scathingly. "How very typical of you to possess so little common sense."

Narrowing his eyes in annoyance, Harry retorted, "The same goes for you too, since you are out here as well." A particularly cool breeze tousled his untamed dark hair and stealthily crept beneath his collar like an indecent intruder, causing Harry to shiver.

There was a hint of an upward curl lingering about the corner of Draco's lips, not entirely a smirk, not entirely a smile. "Unlike you, I know my limit."

"Hmph." In response Harry made a vague sound while pushing his hair away from his eyes. He had quite forgotten that Draco was well known for being very irritatingly sensible, which had the unfortunate effect of making Harry feel rather foolish.

Fumbling for something else to say, Harry was distracted by the gentle calling of the songbird drifting out from within the gilded cage that was the banquet hall. It was a song he knew well; the nostalgic tune brought a smile to his youthful face. Acting purely on impulse, he swayed slightly to the rhythm as though wanting to dance, and hummed along to the melody, his languid eyes glittering with simple pleasure. Only when the song ended with a piano arpeggio did Harry at last notice Draco was staring at him with eyes of the most profound of grey. Maybe it was the wine in his system, for Harry felt his pulse racing to an _allegro_.

"Come on, I'll take you home," was all Draco would say while averting his eyes, as though he was caught prying on something he should not have.

"I'm fine now. I can take care of myself," Harry insisted, claiming the exact opposite of how he truly felt. As he pushed himself away from the railings, the ground beneath his feet swayed like raging ocean waves amidst a late summer storm, and him along with it.

"You are fooling no one but yourself," Draco uttered sardonically and held out a hand to Harry in a gesture of mocking courtesy. "Look, we can argue about this all night. But I don't feel like being late for work in the morning."

Cloudy green eyes narrowed as they contemplated Draco's near flawless visage. How surreal it was that this former rival of his was acting chivalrous for once; Harry wondered if the entire scenario might not have been a morbid hallucination on his part. "I'm not some damsel in distress," Harry stated plainly.

"And I'm not a knight in shining armour either, so we are even," Draco replied dryly, blond strands fluttering as though an invisible hand was twirling them with playful fingers.

"And why exactly would you feel an urge to help a former school rival you don't even like instead of having the say drunken rival embarrass himself like a complete idiot, unless you have some ulterior motive in mind which I'm sure is not for my benefit?" Harry countered in one long breath.

Taken aback by Harry's long-winded declaration, Draco raised a pale eyebrow in amusement. "Congratulations, you've managed to ramble on without taking a single breath in between."

"I'm drunk, remember?" Harry said in a self-depreciating voice while running a hand over his dark hair, messing it up further. "And you didn't answer my question."

"Oh? I didn't sense a question in there. I thought you were just talking to yourself." If there was such a thing as a measure for insolence, Draco would most definitely pass the test with flying colours.

A sliver of agitation seeped into Harry's mind at Draco's steadfast refusal to cooperate; nonetheless, Harry knew he could get nothing more from Draco. Heaving an exasperated sigh, Harry resigned himself to the inevitable, and held onto Draco's outstretched hand. After Harry told Draco his address, the pair of young men vanished into the moonlit night.

Apparating while intoxicated was not a fun experience; by the time they reached the small, forlorn square tucked away in the corner of the urban landscape, Harry felt his stomach beginning to protest against the abuse. Stumbling on the spot, he was saved from the disgrace of landing on his face by a pair of helpful arms.

"I told you," Draco said in a scornful tone and threw Harry's arm over his shoulder. "You'd better not get sick on my clothes, or I'll hex you."

"Right," Harry mumbled indignantly, which was all that he could manage, for his mind was as muddled as a cat who had indulged in a little too much catnip.

Discretely Harry cast a sidelong glance at Draco, whose profile was illuminated by the old-fashioned gaslight lined the street. Grey pupil appeared to glow as though within its depth was captured the imitating firelight; Harry had a sudden urge to see Draco's face more clearly. And yet, seeing as he was never a favourite of Lady Luck's, his wish was sorely ignored.

Slowly they made their way across the square and towards a row of shabby looking houses that had clearly seen better days. When Draco looked pointedly at Harry, it took several seconds for Harry to realise Draco probably could not see the house magically sandwiched between number eleven and number thirteen.

"Over here." Harry guided Draco towards the front steps of number twelve, where the lamp by the porch lit up to welcome back the master of the house.

Once they crossed the invisible barrier that was protecting the house, Draco finally saw the house that was in somewhat less depressing state than its neighbours. An unearthly aura unique to buildings constructed with magic surrounded the house like a thick blanket. While Draco appraised the house with mild interest, Harry pulled out his wand and tapped on the newly painted door that was gleaming a glossy black. The locks, immediately awoken from their slumber, snapped into fluid motion to admit the master and his guest into the house.

The gas lamps in the narrow corridor flickered merrily to the unsolicited visit of the cool, midnight air; and wildly the flame swayed when the front door was closed. Kreacher the house-elf immediately glided into view like the stalking father of a girl who was escorted home by an unknown young man. All Harry could manage was a "I'm home, Kreacher" before he had to cover his mouth lest he fell sick all over the hardwood floor.

"Your master is drunk. Go and make the bed. And fetch a hot towel while you are at it." Draco fired off a brisk command, to which Kreacher complied with a respectful bow, "Right away, sir," and hurried away as swiftly as he came.

The trip up the winding staircase that was polished to perfection was a laborious and fortunately uneventful one. By the time Harry and Draco arrived at Harry's bedroom, the bed was made and the lamp was lit, though Kreacher was nowhere in sight; Harry wondered where he went. After being unceremoniously disposed onto the bed, Harry forced himself to sit up and took off his shoes; otherwise, Kreacher would reprimand him later for wearing his shoes to bed.

Stealing a look at Draco, who was surveying his room curiously, Harry mused if it was the first time Draco had been inside the Black family home. "Thanks for the help," Harry said awkwardly while sinking into the inviting bed and fluffy pillows once more. "And why exactly did you help me out again?"

Tilting his head to regard Harry, Draco spoke in a neutral air, "Think of it as a moment of insanity on my part."

"Very funny." Harry let out a dry chuckle, then stretched lazily on the bed like a cat who was about to curl up for a nap beneath the afternoon sun. "You don't mean you are drunk as well, do you?"

"Maybe," Draco replied nonchalantly, sidestepping Harry's line of query as he was wont to do.

Foggy green eyes squinted at Draco, whose easy composure conveyed not even the slightest hint of intoxication, despite it being probable that Draco had had a few glasses as well. Driven by irritation over Draco's damnably collected demeanour and vague response, Harry grabbed onto Draco's arm and pulled himself up, hoping to find out if he could smell alcohol in Draco's breath.

Grey pupils tinted with a dash of violet widened at the sudden close proximity. Still oblivious to the precarious situation he had unwittingly thrust himself into, Harry inhaled deeply, and was rewarded with a whiff of liquor, though he could not tell whether it was from Draco or from himself. Only when Harry noticed the sudden clarity of Draco's eyes did he finally realise how close their faces were to each other, like a prelude to something he was not sure what of. The wheels and cogs in Harry's head had slowed to a _ritardando_; the only thought that went through his mind was that he could see his own reflection in Draco's mirror-like eyes, eyes of an unexpectedly mellow blend of purple and grey.

Warm, silky breath fluttered onto Harry's cheek like the beating of butterfly wings. Remotely Harry could hear a smooth baritone voice whispering something to him, but he could not make out the words no matter how hard he willed his intoxicated mind to stay focus. And Draco, heaving a sigh for some reason, reached out and took away Harry's glasses. Blinking uncomprehendingly at the face that was glowing softly amidst the blurry background, Harry had completely forgotten to demand his glasses back from the stealthy thief, a certain infuriating someone who was smiling that wry smile of his.

"This is too sly, even for you."

* * *

_To be continued...?_

A/N: I bet I'll get loads of complaints over the tease at the end. I wrote this one on a whim; needless to say, it's an amusing deviation from my usual angst-ridden, bittersweet fare. Anyway, this fic will be relatively short, maybe 3-4 chapters long, so I doubt you'll have to wait an entire year to read the end of it. And lastly, thank you for reading, and a further thank you to those who've reviewed my fics.


	2. Track 2: Alf layla wa layla

Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter and its characters are not mine. _The Arabian Nights _is not mine either. The title of this story is inspired by Shiina Ringo's song, _Okonomi de; _it has nothing to do with Shakespeare's play.

**As You Like It**

_Track 2: Alf layla wa-layla_

Pale morning light seeped through the crack where pale curtain and wooden window frame met, and into the cosy bedroom like a naughty child peeking at what he ought not to see. Dust was floating lazily within the stripe of light cast upon the floor, at times rising, at times falling. Moments later, the sliver of light stretched out its long body to invade the navy blue coverlet on the cherry-wood bed, where a figure was curled up snugly in the blanket, not once stirring from his slumber.

The sweet, refreshing scent of lemon hung about the air like morning mist, tickling the olfactory sense of the figure and ever so gently coaxing him out of his dreams -- a caprice of flying silver whales he could not catch and songbirds whispering nonsensical chants into his ear.

A hand tentatively reached for the clock on the nightstand. A pair of groggy green eyes cracked open and stared blankly at the clock for several heartbeats, before the hand returned the clock to its former place. Mechanically rubbing away the drowsiness from his eyes, the figure groaned when he sensed the swift approaching of a pounding headache.

It was early in the morning, and Harry Potter had never felt such a strong desire to stay in bed for the rest of the day. While it was not the first time he woke up to a hangover following a night of overly indulgent drinking, it was certainly not an experience he enjoyed reliving under any circumstances.

Grabbing his glasses from the nightstand as was his daily ritual, Harry put them on, and the world instantly came into sharp focus. His head was awfully heavy as if someone had switched his brain with one made of pure iron; nonetheless, whether his head was filled with hay or lead, he still needed to go to work. Mustering every ounce of effort he could find in his half-dazed self, he threw aside the blanket and sat up despite the complaints from his body. As soon as the chilly air made contact with his skin, he involuntarily shivered. It was then he realised he was not wearing his usual sleeping clothes.

Gazing down at himself, he found that he was still wearing the dress shirt and trousers from the night before; no wonder why he felt cold. As he cast a glance at the nightstand to see if his tie was there, he saw to his surprise a glass full of some unknown milky liquid sitting on the nightstand like a rigid chessman.

A piece of parchment was stuck beneath the glass. Frowning in bemusement, Harry set the glass aside and picked up the note. Scribbled on the note was a single line of text, in a hasty yet elegant hand he could vaguely recognise: _For the headache, from the bane of your existence._

The memory of the previous night resurfaced in Harry's muddled mind -- the starlit patio, the mellow voice of the songstress, the mischievous night breeze, the nostalgic streetlamps, and a pair of violet-grey eyes. Lightly massaging his forehead, Harry agitatedly wondered how he could have forgotten. He was brought back home by none other than Draco Malfoy, who was the most likely culprit behind the mystery potion, not to mention Draco was the only one who possessed the arrogance and the dry sense of humour to call himself the bane of Harry's existence. And yet, this self-proclaimed bane of his had acted in a manner that completely contradicted the meaning of antagonism.

Warily Harry stared at the seemingly innocent potion, pondering half-heartedly if Draco had seasoned it with a touch of poison for an extra-exotic flavour. At the absurd thought, even Harry had to laugh at himself for being silly.

After picking up the lukewarm glass, Harry breathed in the lingering whiff of lemon, and drank the potion slowly. He had an inkling that there was a gaping hole in his memory concerning the previous night, and yet he could not recall what it was no matter how hard he tried. Oh well, he shook his head dismissively, it was probably nothing of great importance -- or so he hoped.

The potion did not taste half as bad as some of the potions Harry had been forced to drink over the years; in fact, it tasted less like a potion brewed by witches and wizards and more like a herbal remedy invented by the wise in the Muggle world. Perhaps Draco, working as a reporter for the _Lumos Times,_ had picked up a few useful titbits from the Muggle world during his travel.

When Harry at last finished the whole glass, he absently mused if he ought to treat Draco to dinner as a token of his gratitude. Although, to be honest, this self-named bane of his existence had piqued his curiosity, like an unlikely Scheherazade opening the eyes of the tyrannous emperor to the boundless, surrealistic world of wild adventure for a thousand and one nights.

* * *

With an organic palette of wood and plants and warm lighting, the Italian restaurant situated at the heart of London had the flair of a charming European-styled cafe. The appetizing aroma of Mediterranean gourmet fluttered in the air like invisible butterflies; efficient servers carrying sparkling silver trays navigated around tables and corners like work bees. A stream of light, playful jazz piano was flowing from speakers hidden throughout the restaurant, lending an intimate ambience to the place.

Although it was relatively early, most of the tables in the restaurant were already occupied. And Harry, who had arrived early, was able to secure a table by the half-shaded window. As he absentmindedly observed various scenes of human drama played out around him, he threw an occasional glance at the entrance, wondering when his companion would arrive.

Draco was the one who had designated the time and the place; but it appeared he had neglected to follow his own timetable. For a whimsical moment, Harry thought perhaps he ought to give some money to Draco and tell him to have dinner by himself instead. Then again, it would be unfair of him to place the blame on Draco; being a reporter had the unfortunate side-effect of messing up one's well-planned schedule.

As Harry stifled the urge to sigh, he glimpsed upon a lean figure in black leather blazer and blue jeans waltzing into the restaurant -- it was Draco. The casual attire fit Draco's agile form well; there was a certain unintentional elegance about him that reminded Harry of a bird sailing in and out of white clouds against the backdrop of the azure sky.

Having located Harry, Draco smoothly manoeuvred his way through the labyrinth composed of tables and chairs and people, displaying such fluid ease Harry could not help but admire.

When Draco reached him at last, Harry waved his hand in greeting and remarked, "I thought you've forgotten about our dinner arrangement."

"I apologise," Draco replied offhandedly as he slid into the seat opposite of Harry and took off his coat. "I was held up. Have you ordered anything yet?"

"Well, in case you haven't noticed, I'm treating you to dinner, not treating myself to dinner." Harry could not resist a jab at Draco, though in truth he was not even remotely annoyed by the wait.

The corner of Draco's mouth curled upwards into a lopsided crescent; violet-tinted grey eyes glinted with a curious light, as if candlelight was lit behind those oddly mesmerizing pupils. "Alright, you win." With the matter settled, the conversation took a turn towards the culinary.

After the server went away with the order, the pair of young men fell into companionable silence. As Harry took a sip of water, he stole an inquisitive look at Draco over the rim of his glass. Draco was observing something with a distant, unfathomable expression on his face. Following Draco's gaze, Harry saw a living, harmonious portrait of a family of four enjoying their meal and each other's company. _Does it remind Draco of his parents, who moved to Greece several years ago?_ Harry found himself pondering.

A sliver of some unknown emotion was stirring in Harry as he contemplated Draco's pensive profile, an oddly tipsy sensation as if he had drunk one too many glasses of wine -- even though not a drop had touched his lips. Fragments of half-formed memory were flirting about the periphery of his consciousness like a half-forgotten tune; and yet every time he tried to grab onto the tail of the melody, it flew away beyond his grasp.

Inquiring grey eyes turned to him, catching him in the act. Hastily Harry diverted his gaze elsewhere, but he could not entirely hide the sheepish look bespoke of guilt from his face. In an attempt to lead Draco's attention away from dangerous water, Harry quickly improvised.

"So, do you have any plan for this Christmas?" Harry spoke in what he hoped was a leisurely, conversational tone.

"Nothing in particular," Draco answered while leaning into the wicker chair. "I'll probably be working over the holiday."

"No girlfriend or boyfriend who will pester you about not spending time with them on Christmas Eve?" Harry jested at Draco's expense.

A hint of an amused smile was lingering about Draco's lips. "No and no. I'm afraid the life I'm leading is a solitary one at the moment." The smile turned ever so crafty, almost like a smirk. "What, are _you_ being pestered?"

"I don't have anyone who would nag me about that," Harry said dryly while pushing the water glass around on the table, decorating the pristine white tablecloth with overlapping wet circles. "Funny, I never thought you are the kind of people who enjoy solitude."

Several blond strands fell over Draco's forehead as he tilted his head to the side, like an art critic wanting to study a painting from another angle. "One would say that it's better to be alone than to suffer bad company."

"Present company included, I suppose?" Harry said light-heartedly, if more wryly than he ought to be; Draco raised an eyebrow at him in befuddlement, but otherwise remained silent. "So, no Christmas celebration for you then? That's rather sad."

"I'm not a child anymore," Draco stated plainly, his quietly dignified voice laced with a trickle of indignation. "Besides, I am not in the habit of exercising the virtue of giving and receiving, which is, in my opinion, blatantly overrated." At that, Harry could barely keep the smile off his face; of all the people he had known, Draco was probably the only person who would admit so proudly to his shortcoming.

Their small talk came to a prolonged halt when the server brought along a tray full of mouth-watering dishes. The hearty pumpkin soup was creamy and smooth, a true gem that warmed one's body and spirit with a few spoonfuls. The rest of the meal was equally spectacular, a rich symphony of Italian cuisine accented with olive oil and various aromatic herbs.

Unbeknownst to Harry, Draco was discreetly observing him. Painted across Harry's boyish face was a palette of appreciation and delight, an expression that was oddly endearing to behold. It appeared that over the years, Harry had learnt to appreciate the simple pleasure life had to offer, be it a beautiful song or the cool autumn breeze or delicious food. And for someone with such cynical temperament as Draco was, this strange quality of Harry's was beyond his comprehension, yet at the same time, it drew him in.

More intently Draco gazed at the youthful face framed by a pair of ever present black-rimmed glasses. The curves and edges of that familiar visage seemed different from before, as though they were illuminated from another angle. When the light from a nearby lamp was caught within those troublesome glasses of Harry's, Draco had an inexplicable desire to steal away those glasses once and for all, mimicking what he had done on that intoxicating night when the status quo shifted slightly off-centred.

Recollecting himself from his reverie, Draco proceeded to slice a small piece from his veal and inquired casually, "And what's your excuse for remaining single?"

Taking his time to answer, Harry chewed thoughtfully on the ravioli he had propped into his mouth. "Couldn't find the right one, I guess. I thought I found the right one several times before, but..." Harry trailed off, accompanied by a shrug and a bashful smile.

"There is no such thing as the right one. People only think they are a perfect match because they want to believe this is the case." After dipping the strip of meat into the sauce, Draco held out the fork to Harry, who only stared at him. "Open your mouth."

It took three seconds for comprehension to dawn upon Harry; and then comprehension turned into incredulity, as though the lethargic _largo _was abruptly transformed into a lively _allegro_. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Experimenting," Draco said nonchalantly, so natural was his demeanour that it was as if he had merely decided to play Chopin instead of Schumann for the house party recital.

"That's not funny," Harry hissed in chagrin as he attempted to decipher any deeper meaning behind Draco's fickle act, and failed miserably.

"I'm not trying to be," Draco countered effortlessly, still holding out his fork as if dangling the bait before the wild cat he wished to tame.

Lilac-tinted ashen eyes were fixed upon Harry with what could only be described as a teasing yet anticipatory look. Nevertheless, Harry had a distinct feeling that Draco was expecting him to refuse; it was as though Draco was playing a game where his ultimate goal was to be checkmated by his opponent.

_Very well_, Harry thought. If Draco was determined to challenge him to a tango, then Harry would at least steal away the leading role from him every once in awhile.

Leaning forward slightly, Harry caught the strip of meat with his teeth and glared at Draco as though daring him to protest. The meat was finely grilled, with a chewy texture and a daring chestnut sauce; but it was Draco's expression that interested Harry the most. Lucid grey eyes widened in surprise before narrowing to squint at Harry's face, as if in search of something Harry knew not what of.

A sense of deja vu struck Harry's mind none too gently and refused to part; but now was not the time to dwell on it. Setting aside his confusion for the moment, he asked in a faintly defiant voice, forest green eyes glittering like cat's eyes in the dark, "Satisfied?"

Distantly in his mind, Harry knew he had just taken upon himself a game of hide-and-seek with this irregular move of his. And yet, the reckless side of him was disconcertingly unconcerned about the new development. Perhaps Draco had planted a seed of suggestion in the soil that was his mind on the drunken night when the songbird sang her serenade to the celestial heaven -- or perhaps Harry himself had yet to recover from his unfortunate bout of intoxication.

And with a quirk of an elusive smile, Draco regarded him keenly with those pensive purple-grey pupils of his, leaving Harry to fathom out the cryptic answer to his incomprehensible riddle. "Who knows?"

* * *

_To be continued...?_

A/N: Merry Christmas! In this chapter, Harry is as clueless as before, and Draco is as unpredictable as ever. And to be honest, I simply couldn't imagine Draco giving out Christmas presents. Anyway, it's fun to write about food even if you don't get to eat it. Lastly, thank you very much for reading!


	3. Track 3: Lush Life

Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter and its characters are not mine. The song _Lush Life_ belongs to Billy Strayhorn. The title of the story is inspired by Shiina Ringo's song _Okonomi de;_ it has nothing to do with Shakespeare's play.

**As You Like It**

_Track 3: Lush Life_

The Auror Headquarters situated in the Ministry of Magic building was the very vision of a bustling office, a precarious balance between order and chaos. Tarnished wooden cabinets were overflowing with documents about to spill onto the floor. Equally aged desks were cramped together like an insoluble mathematical puzzle. Work-related items and personal effects were scattered all over the desktop without distinction. It was an office designed with practicality in mind, not comfort or aesthetics.

The lighting was mostly dimmed save for the little space Harry occupied. Late was the hour as Harry held his chin with his hand, his eyes glazing over at the news article he had been staring at for the past five minutes. A small radio sat near by, pouring out gentle melodies he could vaguely recognise. When the music ended with a long note on the saxophone and the quick roll of the percussion, Harry interjected with an untimely yawn, before lightly slapping his cheeks to keep himself awake.

He was assigned to the night shift this week, but there was very little to do other than dozing off. Perhaps it could be counted as a blessing that the Aurors had so much free time in recent years.

Finally giving up on rereading the newspaper for the third time, he folded up the _Lumos Times_ and left it lying dejectedly on the desk. Almost unintentionally his eyes were drawn to Draco's name that was printed on one of the articles. A quill drenched in acid was a perfect way to summarise Draco's style of reporting. And unlike his colleagues from the _Daily Prophet_, Draco's favourite victim was the Ministry's administration, namely, career politicians. While it was clear that Draco held a particular grudge against the Ministry, even Harry had to admit he had a point in his vicious attack against the politicians.

What was Draco doing right now, Harry found himself wondering as he listened with half-ear to the mellow serenade flitting in the background. With a mischievous smile to himself, he allowed his imagination to fly into this tranquil, peaceful night. Perhaps Draco was trying to summon a demon to do his bidding? Or perhaps he was practising his knife throw using the photograph of the current Ministry of Magic as the target? Or, more likely, he was bribing government officials for inside information. Whichever the case may be, Harry highly doubted he was handing out sweets to poor children in the orphanage; it was too late an hour for charity work.

Several loud knocks from the entrance of the headquarters woke him from his reverie, and soon it was accompanied by a none too polite query. "Anyone alive in there?"

"Yeah." Getting out of his chair, Harry strolled over to greet the guest, only to find Blaise Zabini standing by the entrance with a large paper bag in his hand and a grumpy look on his face. "Well, this is unexpected."

"You can say that again," Zabini grumbled in annoyance and unceremoniously thrust the paper bag into Harry's hand. "Alright, I'm off," was all he said before he turned on his heels to leave.

"Hey, what's this for?" Harry called out to him, thoroughly perplexed.

"How should I know? I'm just a messenger," Zabini yelled back at him without pausing or turning around. "Go ask the man yourself." And with that, he promptly disappeared into the adjacent corridor, leaving Harry to stare bemusedly at the paper bag in his hand.

After opening the bag with some trepidation, he was surprised to find himself meeting the blank gaze of a paper box; and it seemed a bowl and another box were hidden underneath. The pleasant aroma of food fluttering in the air tingled his senses, making his stomach growl in eagerness.

His drowsiness completely driven out of him, Harry returned to his desk, set the bag down, and took out the items in the bag one by one: multi-layered club sandwiches, a bowl of steamy clam chowder, and a box of chocolate truffles. No note was attached to the bag, but Harry could surmise at the identity of the original sender. There were only a handful of people who could order the arrogant Blaise Zabini around.

"What the hell is he thinking anyway?" Harry mumbled to himself as he stared exasperatedly at the food lined up before him. Was this some kind of bizarre revenge on Draco's part, a little mischief in retaliation of Harry's little prank the other night? If he did not know better, he would be inclined to think that the scenario was rather akin to a girl bringing midnight snack to her boyfriend who had to work overnight.

Harry paused, not entirely certain where the thought stemmed from. _Oh well, I might as well just eat. _Shaking his head once, he fished out the plastic spoon from the bag and started on the soup. It was still warm, suggestive of a warming charm being placed on the food. Zabini probably would not be so considerate, which meant Draco was the one who bought the food, then came all the way to the Ministry to give it to Zabini for delivery.

If Draco's intention was to mess with Harry's mind, he had succeeded spectacularly. And yet, as Harry took another sip of the soup, he mused if perhaps it was part of his own fault for encouraging Draco in the first place. Bantering with Draco had become a kind of entertainment for him, a game he could not resist playing and a tune he could not help dancing to. Seventeen years was long enough a time for an occasional whim to metamorphose into a well-learnt habit.

Biting into the sandwich with more force than was necessary, Harry munched on the bread to the riffs of the soothing acoustic guitar and the deep, gentle voice streaming from the radio, a wistful ballad lamenting lost love. Letting out a sigh, he pondered why he did not feel as disturbed as he ought to be by Draco's unpredictable antics.

When he had at last finished his midnight meal, he cleaned up the desk and looked out the window. Instead of the urban landscape as one would expect, beyond the glass were stars glowing brilliantly at him, keeping him company for the languid night. If he were to look below, he would see nothing but the vast celestial heaven extending into infinity, giving off an impression that he was on a ship sailing steadily across the starry sea. Even if it was no more than an illusion created by magic, the scenery never ceased to amaze him.

And then, like a repeat of the main theme from the first movement, several knocks were sounded from the entrance to the headquarters. Slowly turning his head around, Harry found himself beholding Draco's dark silhouette against the wooden doorframe. Bewildered by the unexpected presence, Harry blinked. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm here to see for myself whether you have fallen asleep on the job," Draco replied while surveying the obstacle course that was the Auror Headquarters nonchalantly.

"So that you can write about the tardiness of the Aurors in your article?" The corner of Harry's lips curled upward into a wary smile. "I thought Zabini would give you a full report."

"He went home already, so that would have to wait." Draco waved his hand dismissively, then strolled over to where Harry was standing by the window. Absently he peered out the window and contemplated the floating sparks in the fake black sky. "This is quite impressive, though not as impressive as the enchanted ceiling at Hogwarts."

At the mention of their _Alma Mater, _Harry could not help reminiscing fondly of his adolescent years. It had been at Hogwarts that the battle for domination had been at its fiercest for the two former rivals. With a start, Harry wondered what had happened to their infamous feud since then. Somehow, as he and Draco grew out of their immature shells and into adulthood, the invisible thread tying them together also evolved into something else, and almost friendship tinted with a faint hue of a certain something Harry was hesitant to put a name to just yet.

Had the seductive melody begun to play in his ear on that baffling drunken night, or had it been brewing in the recess of his mind all along, and the amnesiac night a mere catalyst to ultimate enlightenment?

Mentally Harry shook his head -- he was reading too much into everything as was his bad habit. And yet, he could not help gazing intently at Draco's profile. Those sharp angles that had seemed so pronounced during the day gave way to smooth, softened curves at night. One profound grey eye stared distantly into the veil of illusion, before sending Harry a sidelong glance. Caught by surprise, Harry hastily withdrew his undoubtedly invasive gaze, but the flustered expression on his face gave him away.

Those pale lips of Draco's parted slightly as if about to speak; a second later they formed into a faintly amused smile. Boldly Draco grasped Harry's hand, prompting Harry to look up in shock. A series of queries bubbled into Harry's mouth, but Draco put a finger over his lips, effectively silencing him; Harry felt as if a snowflake had fallen onto his lips. In half a pace Draco stepped into Harry's space, then tentatively he snaked an arm around Harry's back, bringing him closer.

However surreal the entire scenario might be, even Harry could tell it was a silent invitation to a dance. Heaving an exasperated sigh, he asked witheringly, "What do you think you are doing? Or maybe I should ask, what are you thinking?"

"You just don't know when to shut up, do you?" Draco remarked dryly while swaying to the velvety, sensual voice of the songstress trickling from the radio, and Harry along with it. "Silence is gold, Harry."

"Well, forgive me for being unable to read mind, so poor me have no other choice but to ask out loud," or so Harry uttered sarcastically, but he found himself unconsciously following Draco's lead.

Had Harry wanted to escape Draco's arms, he could have done so with remarkable ease; Draco held him so loosely that it would hardly take an effort for Harry to elude him. Nonetheless, Harry remained where he was, revolving slowly with the self-proclaimed bane of his existence on the unlikely dance floor. Was he indulging Draco or indulging himself, he wondered, but he did not have an answer.

At length, Draco led Harry into a small spin, and then spoke again after he neatly brought his partner back to him, "What would you do if I tell you I'm thinking about you?"

Eyes of the lushest of meadow green stared deeply into smoky grey pupils, appraising and pondering and speculating. "Who knows," Harry confessed while looking dazedly away from Draco; the sweet, refreshing scent of cedar exuded from Draco's body intoxicated him as the finest of whisky could. "I haven't thought that far yet."

"Oh?" A pale eyebrow arched inquiringly; a head of blond tilted curiously to the side. "Then what are you thinking about right now?"

A simple question though it was, the answer to which was much more difficult to procure. Unlike a composer who could scrape away parts of the composition without further repercussion, words once spoken were not as easy to retract. Then again, Harry would not be Harry if he was not always up for a challenge.

"What would you do if I say I'm thinking about you?" Harry threw Draco's words back at him, grinning a lopsided grin and turning the table on his evasive opponent.

Violet-tinted irises narrowed ever so slightly in scrutiny, before a wry half-smile fluttered onto Draco's lips. "Don't tempt me too much," he uttered softly in that silky voice of his, which sent a pleasant shiver down Harry's spine, "or else, there is no telling what I might do."

"You are one to talk," Harry countered absently, most of his coherent thoughts scattered into the pond of the unconscious. Almost instinctively he clung onto Draco's shoulder, willing himself to narrow the distance between him and this silver-tongued bane of his.

The waltzing butterfly that was attraction flirted about the edges of their periphery, enticing them into the limitless world of caprice and indulgence in this lazy, intimate night. Like a polyphonic piece for two voices, they were held together by an unspoken consensus, an interlocking duet no one else but they could hear.

The seductive love song from the radio died away into the self-depreciating whines of the harmonica, but the two figures continued to dance beneath the gentle lamplight in the cluttered office, until the moon descended into the western horizon and the first blush of dawn flitted onto the indigo sky.

* * *

Calm yet expectant was the city at daybreak as it anticipated the impending arrival of the rush hour. The sky was swiftly brightening into a pale cerulean blue tinted with shades of grey. The lingering languor of the night had dispersed into the air, to be replaced by a touch of cool, morning frost. Emerged from the Ministry alone, Draco took in a deep breath, letting the wintry air chase away the weariness in his body and the headiness in his mind.

As he reflected on his uncharacteristic behaviours for the past few hours, he could not help chuckling sardonically to himself. It was unlike him to act purely on impulse; then again, he was always fickle when it comes to the matter of the heart. That was how he found himself quietly watching Harry's sleeping face by the bedside on that intoxicating night of pseudo-romance.

_"Don't use being drunk as an excuse; it's too sly,"_ was what he told Harry that night, but Draco wondered if an unconscious part of himself had meant those words for his own ears; he supposed he was a hypocrite after all.

Even so, what transpired afterwards was not an improvised rhapsody from one immortalised session. The spark might have been ignited upon the starlit marble patio once upon a time, but it would have dwindled away into nothingness had it not been fanned into a full-bodied flame. The cynic in him pondered if perhaps neither of them had woken from that drunken night.

A tap on his shoulder pulled him away from his musing and back to the present. When he slowly turned around, he was not surprised to see Harry standing there, forest green eyes gleaming with a brilliant lustre he could not help but adore.

"You are still here." A wisp of incredulity had seeped into Harry's voice; a bashful expression bespoke of sudden shyness had flown onto his visage. "I thought you've gone home already."

"I'll be going soon," Draco replied as he gazed into those catlike irises hidden beneath the lenses. This elusive dance of theirs might be no more than a transient waltz in one movement, or it might be a prolonged overture to a lengthy suite with many movements to come. Nevertheless, the future mattered very little to him; he simply wanted to fathom out the mystery within those haunting verdant depths, however long it might take.

"Well, if you are not busy right now and you don't need to get to work yet, do you want to come over for breakfast?" Harry suggested while raking his hair in that endearingly boyish way of his.

And Draco, wearing a small smile quite unlike his usual crooked, condescending smirk, answered placidly in that suave baritone voice of his, "I would love that."

* * *

_Finis._

A/N: And so there you have it, a minor project completed. This piece is more like a prelude to a romance rather than an account of a romance; but I've thrown in a fair share of romantic elements that I've always wanted to write about. I hope you enjoy this little piece of mine, and thank you very much for reading. And regarding future plan, _Ravens _should get an update next, and then I'll start on the DH story that has been brewing in my mind for the longest time.


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